


Little Fish, Big Pond

by millennialfalcon



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Baby Yoda giggles, Coruscant (Star Wars), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Frog catching, Gen, Hair Braiding, Mando just can't stop taking in strays, Mandomera if you squint, Memories, OC is having a hard time, Parent-Child Relationship, Soft Mando, Sorgen, The Sanctuary, quiet moments, they're krill farmers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23313229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millennialfalcon/pseuds/millennialfalcon
Summary: She likes that Sorgan isn’t smooth and even. She likes the browns, greens, blues, and yellows that bleed into everything. She takes a deep breath through her nose, and smells the trees in the distance, the krill, something roasting over a fire pit. Feels the warm wind push her hair away from her face. Her homeworld is nothing like this.****A quiet moment on the edge of the village between Omera and a Conuscanti runaway.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Omera & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Omera (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Little Fish, Big Pond

Arden watches Winta and the baby from the steps of the house. Actually, if she were being honest, house was too giving of a word – it was more of a hut, with a thatched roof and timber pilings keeping it upright. The floor was dirt. A small wood-burning furnace kept it warm enough on colder nights. Simple. Risen from the ground by hardworking and calloused hands. Nothing like the house she grew up in.

House. That’s what it was. Not a home. No happy memories to tether her to the place, which was never warm and soft like the huts here on Sorgan. The house was always cold, nothing but hard edges of white marble and slick, tiled floors, too-tall ceilings and filed-smooth walls. She used to feel like she was drowning in those halls, one small girl in the middle of a glistening white, icy ocean.

She still feels like a small fish in a big pond, sometimes. But the pond is getting smaller. Or maybe she’s growing. She runs her fingers over the ragged wood of the uneven step on which she sits. Shifts her boots on the grassy earth. Feels the warm wind push her hair away from her face. She likes that Sorgan isn’t smooth and even. She likes the browns, greens, blues, and yellows that bleed into everything. It’s not sterile. She takes a deep breath through her nose, and smells the trees in the distance, the krill, something roasting over a fire pit. _This is real_ , she thinks. The sun beats down on her face and she sighs, more content than she’s been in a while.

“They’ll tire themselves out eventually.”

Arden opens her eyes, not having realized she closed them in the first place. She looks up, over her shoulder, and Omera is leaned against the doorframe of her home, eyes squinting in the sunlight. Arden looks back out at the scene before her, Winta and the Child attempting to catch a slippery frog that found its way from the krill ponds to the kids’ territory. The amphibian keeps wriggling out of Winta’s grasp, and with every hop, the baby screeches a happy sound, its tiny clawed hands reaching out for the animal.

Arden let a small grin grow on her face. She feels Omera sit next to her on the step, sees out of her periphery the woman settle her chin in her palm. Arden can’t help but tense momentarily at their close proximity, Omera’s knee bumping into her own. Her stiff shoulders are short lived, though, as Omera smiles at her in that gentle, mischievous, close-lipped way, like she has a secret to tell. Arden glances at her, traces the soft slope of Omera’s nose with her eyes, and quickly looks away and to her boots. Arden thinks of her own nose, crooked from breaking one too many times; a scar reaching from between her eyebrows to the bridge. She resists the urge to rub it.

“Don’t you wish you had nothing else to worry about besides catching frogs?” Omera’s voice is close and quiet, but the humor is still there.

Arden scoffs. “I was never allowed to get dirty like that.”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the children’s laughter and the breeze. Arden knows Omera is waiting for her to explain. The woman’s silence is not pushy. She simply does not say anything, leaving room for Arden to continue, and Arden finds herself wanting to talk for the first time in a while. So she does, in a soft voice. “I…my homeworld is not like this.” She kicks a small pebble near the toe of her boot. “It’s loud, and busy, and bright. Made of mechanics.” She remembers it vividly, try as she might to forget. “Everything in the Inner Rim is always moving...” She trails off, watches Winta and the Child play, but doesn't really see them.

Arden hears Omera shift next to her, the thick linen of her dress rubbing against itself as she moves. Then: “You’re Conuscanti?”

Arden nods and looks over to Omera. “Do you know a lot about Coruscant?”

“Only what I’ve heard from travelers. And we don’t get many here.” Omera’s question slips from her mouth slowly. “Did you…were you…above…?”

“I lived topside, yeah.” Arden recalls the view of the tops of skyscrapers from her childhood bedroom, some of them reaching into the upper atmosphere. She grimaces. “A lot luckier than a lot of people.” Now that she was going, she didn’t know how to stop herself. “My parents were diplomats – well, my mother still is. My father died when I was small. I don’t really remember him.” Her eyes find the kids, having moved on from the frog and now playing a game with glass beads in the dirt. Winta holds one up to the Child’s large watery eyes, and its little green hands grab at the marble. “Most of the time, I couldn’t even see below the clouds to the lower levels, we lived up so high.” She reaches down and plucks a yellowing piece of grass from near her feet. “But it was always so cold. And dry.“ She twirls the blade between her thumb and index finger. “I didn’t know what grass felt like until about four years ago, after I left.”

“Why did you leave?”

The answer comes easier than she expects it too. There’s a bitter smile on her face. “My mother doesn’t like me very much.” She flicks the grass back to the ground and wipes her hand on her leg. “After the Empire fell, she started to fall with it. Coruscant wasn’t the capital anymore – Chandrila took that title – and her power and influence as an Imperial sympathizer left her faster than a fighter in light speed.” Arden thrums her fingers on her knee and looks to the ground. “She was pretty bad before that, though. I had to be the Senator’s perfect daughter. No room for error.” Her hand balls into a fist, and she pulls at the material of her pants. “She barely won her reelection. But she knows how to beat people.” Arden straightens her back, pushes her hair off her shoulders. She looks to the tree line, away from Omera and Winta and the Child. Tears do not threaten to fall, but her nose burns as she inhales. “I couldn’t stand living under her while being so close to the stars. So I left.”

Arden hates how simple that sounds. It didn’t feel simple when she lived it.

A warm hand over her own stops Arden from ripping a hole in the knee of her pants. Her head whips around to look at Omera, the woman’s olive skin seeming to glow in the low afternoon sun. Her lips purse together, dark brows pulled down in concern. Deep set eyes search her face for…something.

Arden is suddenly timid, feels like the pond is far too big and she’s a guppy swimming in the black. Her cheeks grow hot, and she flushes, stammers. “I’m – I didn’t mean – Sorry, I don’t —“

“Don’t apologize,” Omera cuts her off with a squeeze of her hand. “Do not apologize for what happened to you.”

Arden feels she has a lump of hot coal in her throat, and swallows.

“I’m sorry you had to live through that. And that you had to leave.” Omera rubs her thumb over the back of Arden's hand, calloused fingers a juxtaposition to the softness of her voice, her features. She smiles, crows feet framing her eyes. “But I am glad you made your way here.”

The Child squeals, a decidedly happy sound, and Winta laughs along with it. Arden looks up at them – Winta carefully places a delicate woven crown of white and yellow flowers on the Child’s head. Its large ears keep the flowers from sliding off either side of its wrinkled head. It reaches over to Winta, who is beaming at her creation and the Child’s evident joy.

“I’m glad all of you made your way here,” Omera says, and her words catch in the wind.

Arden huffs a laugh, slips her hand from under Omera’s to quickly wipe her face. “Me too.” She picks a few more blades of grass, and begins tying them in knots, not really paying attention to what she’s doing. The sun warms her skin despite the breeze that whistles through the village. A few times, Arden tucks her hair behind her ear so it stays out of her face. She watches the children play and is thankful for Omera’s knee pressed against hers, a tangible weight to hold her here, on Sorgan, away from Coruscant and the life from which she ran.

For what seems like the tenth time, Arden spits her hair out of her mouth. The wind has picked up as the sun kisses the tops of the trees. She should really just cut it – easier to deal with in a fight, less she has to wash. She keeps losing ties to hold it back from her face.

Omera glances at her from the corner of her eye. “Why don’t you pull it back?”

Arden shrugs. “I don’t have anything to secure it with.” She pushes her hair off her shoulders, twisting it in an attempt to tame it. The wind has other ideas.

Omera hums, then lifts herself off the steps, pads into her home behind Arden. There’s the sound of rummaging, and suddenly she’s back beside Arden, a frayed band of elastic held out to her.

Arden looks from the elastic to Omera’s face, open, nothing hiding under the surface. “It would look nice in a braid,” Omera says as Arden takes the band from her.

“Uh.” Arden stretched the band with her fingers. “I don’t —“ She sighed. “I don’t actually know how to do that. Braid. Or plait. Whichever it is.”

She chances a look at Omera to see her with that closed-lip smile again. The woman stands, smooths out her dress, and sits back down, this time a step above Arden, right behind her so her legs are on either side of Arden’s shoulders. “Let me do it, then,” Omera commands, fingers already threading through Arden’s hair. “But just this once. Next time, I’ll teach you to do it yourself.”

There’s stiffness in her spine once again, but only for a second. Her whole frame seems to slip in relaxation as Omera begins combing through her hair, separating it into pieces and twisting them around each other. Arden has learned to hold herself pretty well in a fight, but the complexities of Omera’s movements, gently tugging one strand, looping it around another, tucking a piece here, there, all in a steady rhythm – Arden loses herself to the feeling and a part of her thinks she would never want to face Omera in hand-to-hand combat.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, leaning against Omera’s leg as the woman braids her hair. Winta and the Child have quieted, their squealing laughter replaced by the sounds of night creatures emerging from their hidey-holes. Fires crackle throughout the village and Arden smells their smoke on the wind. Her eyes have fallen closed again, body relaxing further into Omera as she works her deft fingers from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck. Arden splays her legs out in front of her. Crickets chirp in the grass by her boots. Villagers are taking their dinner in the common area, their voices merry, laughter loud as they engage in fellowship. Arden wonders, briefly, in the back of her mind, beneath the pitter-pat of her heartbeat and swell of sleepiness, if this is what having a family might be like.

“You’re back.”

Omera’s voice is quiet behind her. Her fingers are working on the tail end of the braid now, and Arden’s eyes flutter open. She peels herself away from Omera’s leg and sits up.

The Mandalorian walks over to them from the tree line, Cara not far behind. “Yes,” he replies, the single word sounding heavy through the helmet’s modulator.

“Looks like everyone got on fine without us,” Cara teases, looking from Winta and the Child lying on the grass, to Arden and Omera. “Glad you got to have a little vacation while the adults worked.”

Arden shakes the sleep off of herself, pushing her shoulders back but not tugging away from Omera – she feels the woman’s hands working on the ends of her hair. “I offered to come with you guys on patrol. Not my fault you think I’m bad company.”

“I don’t think you’re bad company,” Cara retorted, hand on her hip and a smirk on her face. “I think you’re _loud_ company. Not exactly conducive to a patrol, don’t you think?”

Arden hmph’s. “Whatever. It was more fun here, anyway.” A hand rests on her left shoulder and her neatly plaited hair is laid over her right. Arden looks down at it, runs her hands over the twisted strands; she didn’t know it could be quelled into submission like this. The frayed elastic is tightened near the end, deep green fabric nearly blending into her dark hair. She twists to look at Omera, who placed her hand on her back. “You _have_ to teach me,” Arden says, almost fervently.

Omera nods. “I will,” she promises.

“Looks good, kid,” Cara says, and offers Arden a hand. She takes it, hauling herself off the step, her legs a bit unsteady, but she gains her footing.

“Did you find anything?” She asks, face turning to the beskar helmet gleaming in the setting sun.

Mando tilts his head, the ridges of his helmet casting shadows along the planes. “No. Looks like they’ve all run off.”

“Good,” says Arden with finality. “Makes the sprained ankle worth it.”

Maybe her mind is filling in the gaps. Maybe she’s hearing things. But she swears she heard Mando huff a laugh at her words. She reached to push her hair from her face only to realize there’s nothing to tuck behind her ear. She bites her lip to keep from grinning.

“Look what I made him!”

Winta stands and picks up the Child, holding it out with both hands to Mando. She grins toothily up at him. The flower crown still rests on its little green head.

“She put a lot of work into that,” Arden says, half serious as she absentmindedly strokes a hand over her braid. “I don’t think I could ever pull that off.”

Mando’s helmet tilts down toward the kids. A gloved hand reaches down and caresses one of the Child’s long ears, careful not to disturb the twisted flowers between them. The Child coos, blinks its big eyes up at him. It gurgles with a smile, and the Mandalorian runs his index finger down it’s nose. “It’s beautiful,” he tells Winta, quiet, almost too soft for the modulator to catch. It’s like a moment frozen in time, the threats of bounty hunters and raiders and Imperial sympathizers forgotten, replaced by freshly tilled dirt and warm ponds of krill, browns and greens and blues and yellows, things made by rough hands and gentle hearts. “Excellent craftsmanship,” Mando says, a little louder than before, and Arden feels like she is holding her breath so the moment won’t end.

The pond doesn't feel so big in slow seconds like these.

Winta looks away, uncharacteristically shy, but she’s been like that around Mando since they first met nearly two weeks ago. She sets the Child on the ground and it tottles over to Mando’s leg, gripping him at the ankle. Mando bends down and picks it up, nestles it in the crook of his elbow. The flower crown is still there.

Cara sighs audibly, and the moment is broken. “So, who’s hungry?”

Winta raises her hand, jumping up and down. She skips over to Cara and grabs hold of her hand.

“Winta.” Omera calls her name sternly, and her daughter looks at her over her shoulder. Omera’s face softens. “Save me a seat.”

Cara chuckles, and gives a pointed look to Arden. “Well, kid? You coming, or what?” Winta is tugging on her arm, but Cara stands her ground like an oak.

Arden shrugs, and smiles. “Yeah, I guess I could eat.” She begins to follow them through the village, but turns on her heel. Mando stands closer to Omera, the Child tucked safely in his arm. He looks up from the Child to her and tilts his head. The sun has set below the horizon, a lingering red glow reflects off the T-shaped visor. “Did you want to...?”

He glances down at the Child, then back up at her. His nod is minute. “Give me a few minutes. Let me put him to bed. Go ahead.” Arden makes to catch up with Cara and Winta, but something gives her pause.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help —“

“Go,” he repeats, trying to be stern but failing. “I’m right behind you.”

Arden takes another look at Mando and Omera, who is still sitting on the steps of her home. She turns away, jogging toward the sound of sizzling meat and laughter.

————————————————

Omera watches Arden round a corner to catch up with Cara and her daughter. She smiles after the girl, a fondness settling in her heart. Her fingers tingle from their work in her hair. “She’s a good kid,” she says, not looking up at the man standing next to her.

The Mandalorian sighs. “Yeah, she is.”

Omera places her hands in her lap, feels the thick fabric of her dress. Her lips purse as Arden’s words from earlier echo in her mind. “You know she has suffered, right?” Silence. “Before she met you.”

He sighs again, as if that’s all he knows how to do. She knows he’s capable of more than that. “I know,” he answers simply. Then: “I can tell. She’s a fighter.”

“Not by choice,” Omera replies. Insects form a symphony around the village as night settles in. “Have you talked with her about it?”

He shifts in his stance. “No,” he says, voice grinding out the syllable. “She’s – we haven’t – I’m not the best at that. Talking.”

Omera huffs. “You don’t say.” She looks up at him, finally, into the face of his helmet, a teasing smile playing on her lips. He looks down at her, turns his body, and she sees the baby has fallen asleep against the warmth of his arm. She sobers, lips pulling into a small frown. “Don’t let her harden,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Don’t let what little trust she has left scar over.”

“The galaxy is a harsh place —“

“And don’t leave her,” she cuts him off, not interested in his excuses. “You can’t abandon her like one of your quarries.” Omera looks to where Arden disappeared behind a thatched hut. “She’s been on her own for too long, even before she left home.” Her body leans toward him until her head is resting against his thigh. She feels him stiffen. Then, a hand on the crown of her head, ghostly fingers threading in her hair. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, leather and fresh dirt and smoke. “Promise me you’ll look after her. Even when she says she doesn't want you to. Even when she fights you.”

He is quiet for a while, but she hears him breathing. A steady rhythm that matches her own. The happy sounds of her village rises up with the smoke from the fires, but beneath it all, she hears him. “I promise,” he says, and she knows he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> hahahahahHAHA I wrote this in a crazed frenzy at 11PM on a caffeine high. this quarantine really got me writing what I want to read instead of endlessly trolling ao3 for hyper-specific tropes.
> 
> more of this oc in the near future? it's more likely than you think!!


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